


lead-heavy

by orphan_account



Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst, Death, Hanahaki Disease, Homophobic Language, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Making Out, Mention of blood, Religious Guilt, Truama, Underage Drinking, Underage Smoking, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-27
Updated: 2020-09-27
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:02:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26312350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Alex learnt pretty fast that the worst way to deal with things was by ignoring the problem, but that doesn’t mean he’ll stop doing it.
Relationships: George Andrew/Alex Elmslie
Comments: 8
Kudos: 44





	lead-heavy

**Author's Note:**

> i have this hunger that cannot be sated, no matter how eagerly i feed on the give and take of relationships. like i’m hollow. like there’s a black hole inside me that absorbs all the warmth, security, support and love. and it leaves me missing, it leaves me aching for an embrace that lasts forever. one that would compress me until i’m lead-heavy, because only then i would feel complete. 
> 
> or would i?
> 
> — kat napiorkowska.

There was a beginning, Alex just doesn’t remember.

He doesn’t remember a lot these days. Cigarette smoke burning his nostrils, the feeling of something being ripped right out of him, right were his heart should be, though he’s not sure what. It’s that, and the guilt. He doesn’t know why, mostly. But it’s there, and it’s not leaving. Not anytime soon.

He’s got a smart mouth but nothing physical to match it with. It gets him in a lot of bad situations.

As I said, there was a beginning. Maybe Alex doesn’t remember it—the real one—but he remembers his version of the beginning. Everything’s a blur, or awful, or just blank. But then there’s George, shining like he always is, there and not exactly the most comforting thing, but he’s there. 

And he was Alex’s beginning.

Alex wasn’t really good with words. He was blunt and cynical and a little meaner than he meant to be sometimes _(all the time)_ and he supposed that’s one of the main reasons he’s ended up where he is. George was searching for a partner in crime, someone to drag through hell and back, and Alex Elmslie ticked all the boxes for an ideal guy. That’s what it seemed like, anyway.

Alex met George when he was five years old. He didn’t have any friends because he didn’t really know how to talk to people, and he always sat on a bench during lunch break because it was far enough away from the other kids that he didn’t have to interact with them but close enough for Alex to see what they were doing.

Then George, the chaotic mess he is, even at the age of four, came barrelling in like a fucking hurricane. He didn’t exactly change Alex’s life the way he did when he was older, but he always kept the weird energy and optimism about him. And he changed little five year old Alex’s life by becoming his friend. Alex wishes he didn’t remember it so well, the way George talked to him like they were already best friends, the way he was only slightly smaller than him and Alex couldn’t help but open his big mouth and make fun of him for it, George’s smile of satisfaction when he’d finally got the quiet kid to talk.

When Alex got home that day, he gave his mother a flower. He doesn’t remember where it came from. 

-

He remembers his birthday. February 1st, 2011. 6PM. He remembers his mother’s laugh, her bright lipstick highlighting her smile. Staining her cigarette red. She got ashes on his birthday cake, but it was okay.

His dad held a sneer at the dinner table. A Bible was sat on the same one. A gut feeling, squirming inside of him. He didn’t know why. Or maybe he did.

He was with George. 

George has always been happy. It weirded Alex out. But he’s bright and yellow all over, his laugh friendly and sweet like an invitation, his voice darker and smooth. Through puberty, his voice wasn’t much of a train wreck. It only got deeper. He always sounded like he knew what he was talking about.

Alex had only turned 12. He didn’t know why his father was staring him down like prey, but he had his speculations. Alex was only 12.

Still, he held a smile on his face as he blew out the candles and listened to his mother and George cheer, because it was better than thinking about the burning stare, the one that meant a thousand things all at once, in the back of his mind.

When he’s about to walk George home and he’s following him outside, George is waiting, and all he can think about is his laugh and his eyes and the way he’s not supposed to think of things like that. _Boys_ like that. He doesn’t know how he knows that. He just does.

But then there’s a grasp on his wrist, and it feels like the weight of the world is pulling him back, sharp claws digging in as far as they can. His breath hitches, and he turns, and it’s only his dad.

“Stay away from that boy,” he seethes, the anger dripping from his voice. It makes Alex stop struggling. It makes his heart drop as he looks his father in the eyes. “You stay away.” The words feel like torture, they make his insides itch like hell. He doesn’t know why. Or maybe he does. Everything burns.

He doesn’t walk George home. He throws up in the bathroom and tries not to look at the blood.

George doesn’t come to his house after that. 

-

Alex is 15 years old. He knows things now, he knows that his brain is wired different and it’s going to be the death of him, he knows he’s supposed to be a man and he knows what faggot means. Why it hurts so much.

He’s just got back from confession and is sitting on the porch of George’s house, a can in hand. George had offered him one when they were inside. He probably should’ve said no. His dad’s going to kill him. He’s freezing his balls off and it’s going to rain, but it’s better than listening to George’s parents argue through the walls and watch George try not to cry.

“You ever think about... the future?”

Alex tilts his head like a dog. “It’s too early for this.”

“No, no! I didn’t mean it in a bad way. You always make stuff negative,” George whines, but the smile on his lips gives him away. He steals Alex’s beer and downs some of it before handing in back. Alex tries so hard not to think about George’s mouth being where Alex’s had been. “I mean, like. I wanna be living in some big house with a cat and a job, maybe related to games, or something, and... whatever.”

Alex raises his eyebrows. “Whatever?

His smile wavers, just a little, before he shoves Alex in the side. “You know what I mean.” He didn’t.

“What about you?”

Alex pretends to think for a moment. “If I’m still alive by the time I’m 18–don’t look at me like that—then I’m definitely leaving. And don’t think I won’t drag you with me. We can get a cat or whatever and you can have your shitty game job. I still don’t know what I’m doing. Maybe you can pay all the bills, I’ll look after the cat,” he laughs at how absurd it sounds. “Husband and wife.”

He tries not to think about what he means by that. What Father John would say about it. 

George bursts out laughing and it breaks him out of his thoughts. “You’re insane if you think I’d be able to live with *you.* We’d go crazy.”

“Maybe,” he grins, taking a sip of beer, “but that’s a lot more interesting than living in a big house all by yourself.”

“Who said I’d be by myself?”

Alex automatically snorts. “Who the fuck can stand you apart from me?”

“I...” there’s a shift, and all of a sudden they’re both uneasy. Grey clouds loom over them, taunting them with the possibility of rain. “I need to tell you something. This isn’t best time, but— _fuck._ I—“

George’s dad comes bursting out of the house, a suitcase closely followed and keys jingling in his hand. “Dad?” Is all he can say. Alex heaves in that moment, covers his mouth with his hand and ignores the tiny petals that spray out.

“Dad.” George says, when he throws the case into the car along with himself. Then he’s screaming, and all Alex can do is watch.

He lights a cigarette, sits on the porch whilst George yells. He burns the petals with his lighter. The sound of a car revving and tires screeching sounds like nails on a chalkboard. He stands up, stands beside George. They don’t exchange words as shaky hands accept the lit cigarette. They were never good with words, not in situations like this.

It rains like a motherfucker and they both get drenched, but George can’t bring himself to move from the road for a while.

When he gets home late he’s cornered in his own home, his chest heaving and body aching when it’s over. But it was worth it, he thinks. Worth it for George.

He prays extra hard that night, for what he’s done. 

Alex knows things now. He knows not to trust, knows that _men don’t come home late_ knows what it sounds like to hear George scream _come back_ and _fuck you_ and _please._ Crystal clear. Like he’s crying it right in his ear. Over, over, and over. 

-

He throws up again, later that night. He thinks about George, watches as the blood flushes away. 

-

“I think about boys,” Alex says. It’s the first time he’s ever said it out loud, and he’s in fucking Church. He’s only done it because he needs to get it out. It’s eating him alive. “I think about them... in a way I’m not supposed to.”

There’s a long pause from the other side. Alex wonders if he’s given someone a heart attack.

“It’s only a sin if you act on it.” Father John says, firm. “I know you can resist temptation. You’re a good kid, Alex.”

Bile rises in Alex’s throat and it takes everything in him not to burn the place to the ground.

-

August 13th. 2015. It’s surprisingly warm outside, and the leaves are turning beautiful shades of flames. 

Alex is kissing George in his Dad’s car. Which isn’t normal, it’s strange, freakish, he knows this. But, whatever. He’s 16, high out of his mind on Valium, so he doesn’t pull away. He doesn’t pull away and he makes everything even more fucked.

George is crying.

He’s saying, over and over— _I’m sorry, it was an accident, I didn’t mean to_ —but it’s such a blatant lie and they both know it. Now it’s up for Alex to decide. There’s a part of him, the sadistic, fucked up side of his brain, that wants to push George’s head down and get him on his knees. Burning, yearning inside him. _Fag_ is on the tip of his tongue like a curse.

 _Sinner,_ his mind chants like a prayer. Alex knows he’s crying too. He stares out the front window and collects himself before ruining his life.

He doesn’t know if he’s just high, or if he really wants to do this, or if he’s just fucking insane, but he pulls back George and they kiss again. He tastes the tears on his tongue. Pulls a whimper out of him. _Fuck, fuck._

_You’re a good kid, Alex._

They kiss again, again, and again, and eventually Alex stops counting.

_I know you can resist temptation._

-

“I’m not gay.” Alex says. He’s making out with George in his bed. It becomes a pretty common phrase in Alex’s daily vocabulary.

“Whatever,” George moans, turning up the TV so nobody hears. Alex did that the first time. He doesn’t get to ponder on how George noted that, and does it every time, because George is speaking in his ear again. “Just fuck me already.”

He’s such a brat, like this. On Alex’s lap, impatience in his tone. There’s sides of George he wishes he could see more of, and others he wants to forget.

He still doesn’t know what category this falls under.

He pulls away, catches his breath. George looks beautiful like this. All panty and needy, a blush that goes from his cheeks to his chest, moles that cover his arms and back like some obscure painting. He _is_ beautiful, or pretty, or whatever girls are supposed to be. He’s gorgeous.

Voice like honey and a face like an angel. Laid down like a princess ready for her Prince Charming. And he doesn’t deserve this, does he? Alex is scraggy and tired and his skin looks like paper, not in the soft or healthy way George’s does. Alex is fucked up, through and through, almost half-dead when he’s around others, his sin spreading like a disease.

This town has been chewing George for so long and Alex doesn’t want him to experience being spat right out.

He doesn’t, so when George says “You’ll stay with me, right?” Alex looks into the eyes of a boy who doesn’t deserve anything Alex has given him, the innocent and genuine look. Alex knows he just means for the night but the question feels like a plead. So he nods, thinks about temptation, being a good kid, and kisses George’s neck like he’ll never get to do it again.

-

Alex pushes the tablets down his throat like he always does, ignores the aftertaste left behind and the way his eyes water. He has a cold shower to wash away yesterday’s mistakes, or something like that. His therapist said hygiene was good. It’s progress. Everything is progress, right?

Alex used to find it unbearable to look at himself at times. He used to turn the lights off when he showered, removed all the mirrors from his room. He still has he slip ups.

He isn’t really sure what kind of day it is today. He scrutinises his appearance through the mirror, hair wet and body bone-y but better than it was before. He stares at his face, every inch, every imperfection. “Fuck,” he murmurs. Speaking feels like torture. His therapist said it was good to look in the mirror. To remember what he looks like. It doesn’t feel too fucking good now, Debra. It feels like a sharp kick in the stomach.

In that moment, it’s almost as if he had been. His throat clenches and he grasps the counter in front of him as petals and blood flow from his mouth, disgusting and looking nothing like love.

He lets it wash down the sink before he gets to see the colour.

The words of advice he often gets start to feel meaningless in his head. The fact that Alex has to congratulate himself for _surviving_ is the most embarrassing thing he’s had to deal with in a while, so he doesn’t dwell. He grabs he coat and goes outside without eating breakfast.

_Oh, fuck! Messed up, Elmslie. Game over. Try again._

Alex learnt pretty fast that the worst way to deal with things was by ignoring the problem, but that doesn’t mean he’ll stop doing it.

Alex still isn’t that great with words. He’s seventeen, turning eighteen in three days, he works at at some shitty corner store and thinks about offing himself more than he’d like to admit. He works with a guy who never shuts up. Alex’s parents are on the verge of getting divorced, his grades at school couldn’t be lower and he hasn’t talked to George in over two weeks.

He hasn’t been to confession in a while, either.

He guesses you could say life was treating him pretty well.

When Alex is almost finished work George is already walking in with some magazines that are probably for his Mum, along with a bottle of Coke, and it’s fucking weird, weird seeing him look more or less the same after two weeks. Maybe a little more worn out, a little tired. But he’s there. After two whole weeks of silence.

They haven’t spoken, but George slides Alex a note that says _Outside_ and he doesn’t question it. He probably should, but it’s been two weeks of torture.

When George pays for it, Alex’s never craved a smoke so bad in his life. He pulls one out immediately once they’re outside, leaning against the side of the shop and offers George one too. He takes it and they smoke together, a little awkward in the silence.

Alex doesn’t know why George is here. He’s not sure he _wants_ to know. 

“What do you want?” He asks, because he’s fucking stupid. He drops his cigarette and puts it out with his foot. 

George looks over to the right to breathe out smoke the other way and not into Alex’s face. An excuse to look away. “Well,” he says. He’s taking his time finishing his own smoke. Alex’s head hurts, a _lot._ He just wants this over with. “Do you wanna come over to my place?”

Alex’s heart seizes at the same time anger rises in his throat. He clenches his fists, draws himself up just a little to get a height advantage over George. He comes all into his space, and George drops his cigarette in surprise. 

“Why the _fuck_ are you asking me that?” He asks, sounding more taken aback than he’d intended. 

George snaps in that moment, and it feels like he’d wanted to say this to Alex for a while.

“Holy _shit_ ,” he draws out, and it’s _mean_. He’s known George since he was five, and he’s never seen him like this. “You can’t be serious. You know why the fuck I’m asking.” He looks at Alex, eyes all coy and knowing, like he’s not being an asshole. He walks forward, and Alex remembers who’s the stronger person here.

Alex wants to walk away, but George’s in his space, and it feels commanding, _i_ _ntruding,_ like a power statement. He’s backed up against the wall, and it feels a little like _don’t move until I let you._ It feels a little too fucking familiar. An angry smile shows up on his face before he can stop it, and there’s the sound of hollow laugher coming from his mouth. 

“What the fuck is so funny?”

Alex laughs some more, dangerous. “Fuck _you_ , man. I know what you’re talking about, yeah, you _cunt._ You lonely? You finally realise you’re a fucking f—”

George pushes him back so hard his head hits against the wall, and Alex tries to not show his fear. He unconsciously tracks the movement of George’s lips as he speaks. “Don’t start assuming—”

“Assuming _what,_ mate.” Alex drawls, sharp and cut-throat because if George wants to get _mean,_ Alex will always fucking win at that game.

George looks like he might punch Alex. He stares into his eyes, a little alarmed, and Alex looks back, like, _I dare you._

“I was tryna be nice,” He murmurs after a minute or so of silence, pushing away from the wall and Alex. “Fuck you.”

“Don’t come out with that—” Alex starts, but has to turn to throw up. It pushes out of his throat all at once, and it _s_ _tings,_ it _hurts,_ real bad like its scraping his insides. He closes his eyes like it’ll make the pain stop. When he opens them, his chest is heaving, and he tries to ignore how much harder it is to breathe when this happens. 

He feels like he’s dying. For real, this time.

He stares at the blood and disgusting pile of petals that he can’t tell are actually red or just turned out red because of the blood, and the thorns, the _Goddamn_ thorns.

 _George,_ his mind reminds him unhelpfully.

“What the fuck.” George exclaims pointlessly. “What the fuck.”

“Mind your fucking business,” Alex reacts, a lot weaker than he’d like. His voice is fucked up from the thorns. He’s still holding his stomach and bracing a hand against the wall. He spits and there’s only more blood added to the pile. “Fuck.”

“ _Alex_ ,” George says, fight already forgotten. He’s got this gleam in his eyes one that Alex _really_ doesn’t like, one that can only mean George knows. “Do you—”

“Yes, I know what the fuck this means.”

“What’s her name?”

Alex’s chest heaves at that, and his heart surges, because it’s him, isn’t it? _Isn’t it?_ He ignores the feeling, the certainness of it, because it hurts so bad. “What makes you think I’d tell you?”

George leaves without a word.

-

“You’re not broken, boy. You get that surgery and everything will be just fine. It must be the way God intended life to go.” Alex has gotten a little tired of Father John’s shit.

A little tired, but he sort of wants to take his advice. _Sort of._ *As a last resort.

-

“George,” he lets out, breathless. He’s drenched. It’s 4AM. Life’s good.

“What the _f_ _uck,_ cunt,”

“It’s you. It’s always been you.”

There’s silence, and then George lets Alex into his house.

-

He pukes in the sink before he sits down at the kitchen table to talk to George. It doesn’t feel like it should—not like a conversation about loving someone so hard you die, it was more like having a I’m Disappointed In You talk with a parent.

“We can’t,” George whispers. It’s dark and Alex suddenly realises he doesn’t want to see George’s face. “I’m sorry, I’m so fucking sorry, we—“ his voice cracks.

Alex tries to hold it in, because if he breaks down now, he won’t be able to say want he needs to. “I know,” he swallows a lump in his throat. “I thought you should know, at least. I guess.”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah.” Alex smiles, sad and hopeless. He knew there was never a chance, but it doesn’t make it hurt any less. 

“What are you gonna do?”

Alex doesn’t respond for a few minutes. “I don’t wanna live a life without love.”

“Fuck. Fuck, Alex, what the hell?”

“I know.”

“God, I fucking hate you.”

“I know.”

George stands up, hugs Alex so tight he thinks he might burst. “I’m gonna miss you so fucking much.” He doesn’t let go for a while, and they stand there in his kitchen, holding on to each other as hard as they can. “Fuck.”

George is the first to start crying.

He lets out a shaky breath. “I’m gonna kill myself.”

_”What?”_

“I’m serious. I can’t—we can’t love here, not in this town or with my parents, I can’t live with you gone—I’ll be miserable, Al, please,”

Alex feels like throwing up. A sudden waves of nausea hits him. “Don’t you dare. Don’t you dare George. You’ve got so much more to live for.”

“Like _what?”_ he exclaims. “Feeling guilt every time I walk into my own house? Watching everyone else get on while you’re dead? Knowing I could never love a girl—” he stops, chokes on his words. “The way people want me to?”

“Listen to me. You don’t kill yourself when I’m gone. You keep living and you live the life I wanted to live.”

He doesn’t go home for a long time.

-

Alex dies. George doesn’t kill himself, for his sake. Just in case he’s watching from above.

Or below.

-

The funeral is quiet, way quieter than George thought it’d be. He doesn’t cry. He hasn’t cried since he heard the news. He thinks maybe he’s broken, that any ounce of energy he had for anything had been striped from him after that. He wouldn’t be far off.

He doesn’t feel real, none of it does.

He’s like a ghost of who he used to be, watching Alex get lowered and distantly hearing someone sob in the background. Maybe it’s Alex’s mum. He never did like his parents much, anyway.

He doesn’t cry. He’s not sure if that’s because he can’t or doesn’t want to.

-

It’s three weeks later when he’s able to visit again. There’s flowers there, wilting and grey. The sun is shining brighter than ever. It feels like a spit in the face. A mockery of the way he died.

“God, Alex,” he drops to his knees and they hurt against the pebbles in front of the black, shining gravestone. “Why’d you have to die like this? Why’d you have to—” _fall in love with me._ He chokes on his words. It’s nobody’s fault but his own.

Except he’s not choking, he’s _c_ _oughing._

_No._

A hand flies up to cover his mouth like it’ll stop it from happening. He can’t stop, and soon there’s a string of saliva leaving his throat with dashes of purple of red mixed in.

Purple and red petals, gleaming in the sunshine.

George throws up for real later next to the gravestone, exactly five seconds after the realisation hits him.

**Author's Note:**

> i apologise


End file.
